Bleeder: A Memoir

Sunset upon the Heart

115 sunset upon the heart September . At the end of summer, New Hanover High School in downtown Wilmington hires me to assist with mentally handicapped students. Dad is happy that I sign insurance forms, Mom that I have a “real” job. And on that first day, as the students arrive, I stand in the doorway and shake hands as I am introduced by the classroom teacher, Mrs. McRae. Those returning from the year before already know the teacher, the classroom, and the school, but a few are as new to this place as me. They walk slowly, drop their shy heads low and—often escorted by a mother who coaxes them into staying—they are left in my care. I take one of their hands—a student with Down syndrome named James whose easy smile and full round face reminds me of Louise—and I show him where to stow his lunch, hang his bookbag, and then sit. I give him a deck of playing cards that he spreads out upon his desk, setting the cards in straight and even rows. After the bell rings, the class settles down and we go over the introductions and classroom rules; then Mrs. McRae doles out change for the math lesson. I stroll the room and cast glances at their worksheets. Sylvia fumbles the change in her hand and appears to count it, but cannot. I go to her. “What is this?” I ask, pointing to a tarnished nickel, laid flat on the desk in front of her. “A quarter,” she says. Shelby Smoak 116 “No, look again.” She examines the coin, raises her head to my eyes. “A quarter,” she says again. I lift the coin and hold it in front of her, spinning the nickel between my thumb and index finger, and I ask her to think about it, guess the coin. Sylvia lunges toward it, scrutinizes her eyes against the silver, then leans back. “You have pretty hair,” she says, reaching out to touch my head. “No, no, no.” I politely deflect her advancing arm. “We’re not talking about hair. We’re doing math. Counting money.” I pick up a quarter from her stack, hold it flat against my palm. “Now, Sylvia. What is this coin?” She looks to it, staring blank-eyed. “A quarter.” “Good. Now how much is a quarter worth?” Sylvia opens both hands, extends her fingers. “Ten cent.” In the neighboring desk, Jason has begun to listen. “No, no, no,” he says, fetching a quarter from his pile. He pretends he’s Sylvester Stallone— big muscles, big man. “Quarter is twenty-five cents.” He fishes one more from his pile, then reaches into Sylvia’s stash for another. “Three quarters is Coca-Cola.” He slaps his desk table, laughs, and tries to pocket the quarters. “No,” I tell Jason. “That money is for learning, not spending.” “Oh, yeah, yeah . . . Sorry.” Jason de-pockets the quarters and grabs his pencil to finish his worksheet while Sylvia watches. Then she reaches for Jason. “He has pretty hair,” she says. “Get your hands away from me.” Jason leaps from his chair, tenses his arms, and squints his eyes. “Don’t mess with me,” he commands in an unnaturally thick and deep voice. “All right, all right,” I interject. “Nobody’s messing with anybody. Get back to work and finish your assignment.” Reluctantly Jason sits while Sylvia, mouth agape, stares vacantly at the shampoo sheen of his black hair. “Quit looking,” he says, separating his desk from hers. “Quit looking, Sylvia,” I say. “You need to do your homework.” “Okay, Mitch.” “No. I’m Shelby.” “You have pretty hair like Mitch from Baywatch.” Bleeder 117 “Sylvia. Do your homework.” Sylvia smiles, lobs her head back in laughter and again tells me how pretty my hair is. “You pretty.” I thank her for the compliment, advise her to do her work, and move on to another student. The classroom soon assumes a familiar schedule: math and language in the mornings; lunch; and job and community skills in the afternoons. And then we all grow anxious for the buses to arrive. In a job like this, there is very little time to sit and rest. I must patrol the classroom and teach standing. A lousy teacher, I understand, would laze at his desk and only occasionally take a turn of the room. So Mrs. McRae and I stroll the room as good teachers should, and consequently my ankles swell, as I...